


Enlightening Breakfast Tea

by Wightpants



Category: Babblebrook (Web Series), Goodnight Moon ASMR
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-03-29 20:18:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19027198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wightpants/pseuds/Wightpants
Summary: Mrs Pippetwhistle seeks feedback on her matchmaking skills.





	Enlightening Breakfast Tea

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Goodnight Moon for creating the wonderful Babblebrook universe for us in her ASMR videos.
> 
> I can't remember where the name 'Anastasia' came from for the haberdasher. It certainly wasn't me. It may have been on Patreon, possibly YouTube comments or maybe even a livestream. Kudos to whoever came up with it though as it fits nicely and it stuck in my head.
> 
> Did someone mention woodcutter cliches? In a fantasy story? Surely not! :D

Leaves, herbs and spices hung from every available space on the wood-panelled wall. Jars, boxes and pots sat on shelves in no discernible order. Strainers, spoons and spatulas spilled out of the top of storage jugs like petrified fountains. To the untrained eye, first glance suggested an establishment in disarray. Closer scrutiny, however, revealed an order emerging from the chaos. A garrison of fine ceramic cups besieged a fortress of saucers and other crockery on the benches against the back wall. This came off second best only to the regimental precision of the table mats, cutlery and napkins which bedecked the tables. The growing warmth emanating from the stove complimented the subtle spicy aroma that permeated the main room.

With one last check that the kettle was on the stove and everything was as it should be, Mrs Pippetwhistle walked decisively to the door, brushed down her apron and opened the tearoom to the morning air. The door was barely ajar before a ginger blur, streaking out of the gap, indicated the start of Pepper’s adventures for the day. No sooner was the door fully opened, than the feisty feline was rapidly replaced by a tall dark figure who strode confidently onto the welcoming doormat. Removing her top hat to reveal a tightly fastened auburn bun, the not-so-tall-after-all haberdasher vigorously wiped her feet on the mat to remove the dawn-dampened dirt from the soles of her boots, leaving a drier layer of mulch around the sides.

“Anastasia! I didn’t expect to see you so early this morning,” smiled Mrs Pippetwhistle, stepping back and eyeing the younger woman expectantly. “You had an early night last night?”

The haberdasher gave a small, sharp exhalation from her nostrils. “I did not keep unreasonable hours yesterday evening, if you must know,” she said, stepping into the tearoom and beginning to undo the buttons of her coat.

“Oh, I must!” replied Mrs Pippetwhistle, retreating behind the mahogany counter.

“I’ll have a tub of my usual blends and bouquets please, Mrs P,” said the haberdasher, doing her best to ignore the provocation. The floorboards creaked noisily beneath her feet as she leisurely followed to the counter. She plucked an errant thread from the lapels of her blazer with a minimum of irritation.

“Certainly. And a freshly made cup to start the day! On the house, of course,” replied Mrs Pippetwhistle. “So… you’ve run out of your last batch already?” she asked, furrowing her brow in feigned puzzlement as she began to fetch the necessary jars from their perches on the shelves. “Have you been entertaining?”

“My dear P,” began the haberdasher drolly, leaning on the counter and fixing the older woman with a knowing look, “I am _always_ entertaining!”

The women held their composure for a second or two before dissolving into a bout of amiable laughter.

“Oh come now, my love, you know perfectly well what I mean,” insisted Mrs Pippetwhistle, deftly scattering herbs into the two cups on the counter in front of her. “How can I keep my customers happy if I don’t get feedback from them? Now stop being evasive and tell me – how did your date with the woodcutter go last night?” She scoured the haberdasher’s face intently.

“Ah yes, the woodcutter!” said the haberdasher in clipped tones, lowering her head towards her friend and shooting her a steely glare over the top of her substantial spectacles. “Whatever made you think it would be a good idea to match me up with a man who wears black and red checked shirts… in springtime!”

As Mrs Pippetwhistle stared back, unsure how to reply, something in the atmosphere seemed to shift imperceptibly. The haberdasher felt a growing sense of unease building in the room. Then a sound which seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once – thunder? An approaching horse and cart perhaps? But no… it had a shrillness to it – a high pitched whine which soon identified itself as emanating from the kettle on the stove. The haberdasher began to relax until she observed Mrs Pippetwhistle gather herself, draw in a long breath and stand poised behind the counter.

“Please!” implored the haberdasher, before quickly lowering her voice, “It’s first thing in the morning. Can we not preserve the peace and leave the tranquillity of the day untarnished ‘til noon at least?”

“Of course,” Mrs Pippetwhistle said, gently releasing her breath, “my mistake – force of habit.” She turned to the stove and removed the kettle; the screaming pot wavered to silence like a slumbering grandmother briefly disturbed from her repose.  She returned to the counter to carefully fill the two cups to their optimum level – enough to best extract the goodness and flavours from the herbs, but not so much as to weaken the brew. “Now come on, Anastasia, you can’t go around judging everyone by their dress sense. Or lack thereof,” she continued, shifting one of the cups over to her companion, “and where would we be if we rushed to judgement on everyone like that? I’d have had you down as quite the precious, pernickety little madam if I’d judged you on first impressions.” She raised her eyes thoughtfully. “I’d never had my measurements taken to the nearest sixteenth of an inch before. But now I know it’s just part of your endearing professionalism and attention to detail, my love.”

“Professionalism? Why I was simply incredulous that you had such a fine figure,” the haberdasher said, and looked innocently away, before adding, “for your age.”

“Oh!” gasped Mrs Pippetwhistle, leaning forward.

The haberdasher let out a small yelp as she ducked beneath the counter, narrowly avoiding the wooden spoon which wooshed over her head in a searching arc. “A joke! Hold your fire!” she said, peeping up above the counter. “I’m a very jealous woman, please forgive me?” she pleaded, pressing her hands together.

“You’re a very _cheeky_ woman,” said Mrs Pippetwhistle, pointing the spoon accusingly at her friend and narrowing her eyes. “A very cheeky _young_ woman,” she paused before allowing herself a smirk, “for now.”

The haberdasher lowered her eyes in acceptance of the rebuke as she meekly resumed her seat.

“My point is,” continued Mrs Pippetwhistle, placing the spoon gently on the counter, “the woodcutter’s shirt will simply be an indication of his own professionalism. I’m sure he has ways of expressing himself other than his wardrobe.”

“Well,” the haberdasher nodded sarcastically, “he can cut wood.” She swirled her teacup gently and carefully inhaled the invigorating vapours. “Did you know he makes sculptures out of some of his off-cuts? Not the refined, delicate kind of ornament that would adorn the halls of sophisticated socialites such as ourselves, you understand? No, these are much more…” she paused, biting her teeth together, “primitive. I think.”

Mrs Pippetwhistle pursed her lips sympathetically. “He is a labourer by trade, remember. I’m sure that with time, encouragement and the right tools he’ll be able to, er… smooth out some of the rough edges,” she ventured, blowing gently on her tea and all the while observing her friend with a keen eye.

“Ha! He’ll not need tools to smooth things out, with hands like sandpaper,” the haberdasher scoffed. She looked thoughtfully as she pulled another dark red thread from the front of her blazer. “That’s what woodcutter’s hands are like aren’t they?” she mused.

“Okay,” Mrs Pippetwhistle beamed. She turned to fetch a well-thumbed leather-bound book from the bench at the back wall. She flicked through to find the pages she was looking for. “I think I can mark you two off my list for the time being,” she explained slowly, as she wrote diligently in the book. “I don’t suppose you’ll be looking for anyone else for a while after a first date such as you’ve evidently just had!”

“Such as…? First…?” the haberdasher stumbled, uncharacteristically unsure of herself all of a sudden. “Why? What kind of date do you think we had?” she asked, rallying.

“Well, there is hardly need to employ a leaf reading here my love. Let’s see…” Mrs Pippetwhistle began as she fixed her friend with a superior smile. “You’ve come bounding into my tearooms this morning all full of yourself. He’s obviously taken you back to his cabin yesterday to show you his sculptures which even _I_ didn’t know about.” She glanced down at the dried wood pulp and small chippings stuck to the base of her friend’s boots, “He’s walked you home through the woods. You’ve come to know the feel of his hands. And…” she levelled her eyes at her quarry once more as the haberdasher fiddled sheepishly with her lapels, “you spend the next morning brushing the hairs from his shirt off your blazer.”

For the second time that morning, the haberdasher lowered her head to peer over her spectacles at her friend. This time with a more furtive, bashful smile.

**Author's Note:**

> I am grateful for any feedback or suggestions. Thanks for reading.


End file.
